


Just Add Vanilla and Ginger

by xRabbitx



Category: DOGS - Fandom
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bromance to Romance, M/M, Porn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xRabbitx/pseuds/xRabbitx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heine and Badou are morons, and they should both have legal guardians. (Plus, Heine is in trouble with the police and needs some leverage with the DA, but he finds a lot more than he bargained for. Badou is mostly there for snarky comment and smoking)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn't been beta'ed, so I apologize for any typos and stuff.

It’s raining on the day Heine kisses Badou for the first time. They’re standing in the abandoned factory hall, rasping and gasping for breath while adrenaline pumps through their veins and the smoke slowly dissolves around them. This used to be a printing hall. The printing presses are still there-- huge dark monsters of metal covered in dust-- and the concrete floor is littered with old newspapers. If Heine had cared he would have picked one up to see what the date said. It’s too late now anyway. Most of the papers are ruined with thick red blood and that sticky jelly that a brain turns into when a bullet explodes inside it-- that shit is almost impossible to get off of leather.

The air around them is thick with dust and the smell of blood and gunpowder. It’s quiet save for the faint death rattle of a couple of the bodies lying scattered on the floor. Heine huffs and spits out a mouthful of blood, then turns to Badou.

“Not again,” Heine sighs and rolls his eyes when he sees Badou clutching his thigh. “You fucking moron.”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” Badou hisses as the denim of his jeans turns dark with blood. “It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.”

“Well, you could’ve fucking fooled me,” Heine huffs and grabs Badou by the collar, dragging him through the carnage and over to a large table that by some miracle is still standing after the rain of bullets. “Every fucking time you get yourself shot. Get up.”

Badou climbs up to sit on the table with lots of hissing and swearing. Then he removes his hand to let Heine see the wound. Heine inspects the bloody hole in Badou’s thigh for a moment, then holds out his hand for the pocket knife he knows Badou is always carrying. He cuts the leg of Badou’s jeans open so he can have a proper look.

“Went straight through you. Didn’t even touch the bone,” he mumbles and pokes the wound, earning himself a slap over the head from Badou along with a “Ouch! Don’t fucking touch it, you fucking dickhead.”

Heine snorts and tears a strip of fabric off Badou’s jeans so he can dress the wound and stop the bleeding.

“You’re such a fucking nancy.”

“Hey fuck you, freakshow,” Badou spits and lights and cigarette. “Just ‘cause you’re able to heal yourself in like three seconds.”

“It takes more than three seconds,” Heine points out and snatches the cigarette from Badou to take a drag before handing it back. “It takes at least like five minutes. I’m just clever enough to keep myself from being made into a fucking pincushion.”

“Asshole,” Badou mutters around the butt of the cigarette.

They stand there in silence for a while before Heine sighs and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“I’m sick of this place,” he mutters and prods what was probably once an ear with the tip of his boot. “Let’s get out of here. The cops are probably on their way anyway.” 

“Yeah,” Badou mumbles and slips down from the table. One second later though he is on his knees on the floor, hissing and spitting and cursing.

“You’re not supposed to put weight on it, moron,” Heine snorts and kneels down to slip an arm under Badou’s and lift him up. It’s not easy because Badou is taller than Heine, but eventually he manages to get Badou to his feet again. 

“We’re taking the metro,” Badou groans as he humps along, leaning against Heine. “I’m not walking like this.”

“And I’m not getting in the fucking metro,” Heine says, curling his fingers around Badou’s belt to keep a tight grip on him. “I hate the metro.”

“Well, I can’t take it alone, can I?” Badou bites, fumbling with his cigarettes with his free hand.

“You can’t take it anyway, genius,” Heine huffs and helps Badou with the cigarettes. “You can’t just waltz in there covered in fucking brain snot.”

“Oh, right,” Badou mutters and lights the cigarette Heine helped him get out the pack. “Guess we’re walking then.”

“Bet your skinny ass we are.”

“My ass isn’t fucking skinny.”

Heine uses his free hand to push the heavy slide door open and finds himself staring into what can only be described as a wall of water.

“Jesus motherfucking Christ,” Badou complains. “Of course it fucking rains.”

“Quit your whining,” Heine huffs and soldiers on, out into the rain with Badou still leaning against his side. 

They’re drenched within seconds and soon after Badou starts to shiver like an epileptic at a techno club. Heine knows that Badou isn’t going to make it all the way back in this weather, so he heads down a narrow alley that leads to the docks. There are plenty of empty buildings there and the cops won’t think to look for them right next door, if they’re even going to bother looking for them at all.

“Here,” Heine mutters and kicks a moldy wooden door open before dragging Badou inside. The ground floor is flooded with water and trash, but Heine spots a staircase leading up to the first floor. It’s dryer up there-- well, it’s not flooded anyway-- and Heine kicks a couple of rats away before setting Badou down on a bed of cardboard boxes and newspapers that was probably made by a homeless at some point. It’s damp and smelly, but it will do for now. 

“Charming place,” Badou mumbles and eyes Heine. “Real cozy.”

“Quit your moaning and give me one of your smokes,” Heine huffs and digs a hand into Badou’s pocket to find his cigarettes. Badou goes silent and looks away, which is weird because usually Badou is pretty damn possessive of his smokes. Heine shrugs it off and lights two cigarettes before handing one of them to Badou.

They sit in silence for a while, listening to the rain and kicking out at the rats now and then when they get too close. Heine misses one of them and manages to kick himself instead which results in Badou breaking down into a fit of laughter beside him. 

“Fuck you, ginger,” Heine huffs, but he can’t help chuckling a little. It isn’t often he hears Badou laughing, and he has always liked the sound-- even when Badou’s laughter turns into coughing and Heine has to pat his back to make sure he doesn’t suffocate. Badou grins and wipes the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, then turns his head to look at Heine. Heine doesn’t know what it is exactly, but sometimes there are these moments between him and Badou, like they see right through each other and it always makes Heine freak out a little. No one has ever looked at Heine like this, and he has always imagined that if anyone did, they would run away screaming. Badou never does, though; he just sits there with his green eye and millions of freckles and looks fucking _edible_. Heine isn’t prone to perving on people, but god fucking damn it, Badou just brings all kind of weird stuff out in him. 

“How’s the leg?” Heine mutters and looks away, feeling awkward. “Does it still hurt?”

“I’ve had worse,” Badou says and lights another cigarette. “Remember the time where some asshole shot off two of my fingers and you had to put them in your pocket so the quack could stitch them back on? Now that _hurt_. This is nothing.”

“Yeah yeah, I get it,” Heine says, rolling his eyes. “You are the baddest of the badasses, Badou fucking Nails.”

Badou barks a laugh and pushes at Heine’s shoulder and Heine pushes back like fucking schoolboy-- if Badou had had pigtails, Heine would have pulled them. Heine does something else instead, though; he grabs Badou by the hair and tugs him into a kiss. 

This isn’t planned at all, and judging by Badou’s reaction he is just surprised as Heine is. The kiss lasts a couple of seconds before Badou pulls away and stares at Heine with disbelief written all over his flushed face. 

“What the fuck?” he breathes. “What the actual fuck, Heine?”

Heine shrugs and doesn’t know what to say. He has no idea why he did it, but he already knows that he would like to do it again. 

“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” Badou asks with a suspicious look. Heine opens his mouth to reply, but he is interrupted by the sound of men running and radios scratching. 

“Get the dogs,” someone says somewhere downstairs. “They can’t be far away. We have a witness who saw them head down here just a moment ago.”

“Fuck,” Heine and Badou breathe as one.

~*~


	2. Part II

~*~

Despite what certain people may think, Heine fucking hates dogs. They are stupid and smelly and so damn fucking tenacious, chasing him through the narrow alleys between the old warehouses with their red tongues hanging from their mouths. Heine spits and presses on, sprinting down towards the pier where the ships used to load and unload their cargo while turning back now and then to aim a couple of bullets at the hounds following him. Fuckers dodge them every time.

He hadn’t been thinking when he had jumped out of the window from the first floor. All he had known was that Badou was in no fit state to out running the cops’ mutts. The plan had been to make a distraction and the distraction had indeed been made when Heine had landed right next to the group of cops, put a bullet between the eyes of one of them, then sprinted off-- Heine can hear the outraged shouts behind the dogs’ barking. 

Suddenly he’s out in the open, running along the pier, dodging in and out between empty cargo boxes and small hills of coal. A shot pierces the air above his head and he spins around and fires. The policeman falls to the ground with a groan and a second later a dog is sinking its teeth into Heine’s forearm. It stings like hell, and Heine aims a fist at the dog’s head. It pulls away with a whimper, and then collapses on the round when Heine puts three bullets through its gut. 

White-hot, blinding pain shoots through Heine and paralyses him as the sickening sound of his thighbone shattering reaches his ears. A moment later there are three cops over him, kicking and hitting him until his eyes roll back in his head and the world turns black.

~*~

“...gonna fucking hang, asshole. We don’t take kindly to copkillers here.”

Heine groans and cracks his eyes open, and promptly receives a kick to the gut. It knocks the wind out of him, and he curls up, coughing and spitting blood. Someone laughs above him, and Heine opens his eyes to glare up at a fat cop who is practically drooling with glee. 

“Mark my words, freak,” he says and leans down to wave a fat finger in Heine’s face. “You’re gonna fucking hang.”

Three seconds later, the cop is screaming and missing half a finger and Heine is wrinkling his nose and spitting the foul-tasting fingertip out on the floor.

He spends three days in the cell. It has no bed or window. The only thing it has is a small, filthy toilet. The cops only feed him once a day, probably hoping that he is going to starve to death. That would be the only way he could die anyway, because no matter how corrupt the police force is, they still can’t put him up for execution without an ID. And Heine has no ID. He has no files, no birth certificates, no known fingerprints or associates. There is nothing on him and Heine is satisfied to see the growing frustration written on the cops’ faces when they try to question him.

On the third day, Heine is woken up with a bucket of freezing water to the face. 

“Rise and shine, freak,” the half-fingered cop says. “The guest you asked for is here. You got five minutes.”

Heine frowns-- he hasn’t asked for anyone to come. His confusion ends quickly though when the bishop steps through the door, smirking as always. The cop is still there, scowling suspiciously at both of them. 

“Glad you could come, Father,” Heine mutters and pushes to his feet.

“Ahh, it was no trouble, my child,” the bishop says, then gestures towards the cop. “This fine gentleman was kind enough to let me see you. Even sinners have a right to confess their sins after all.”

“Right,” the cop mumbles. “‘Kay, uh-- I’ll leave you to it then. But be careful, Father. This guy is fucking nu-- er, I mean, he’s quite mentally unstable.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be fine. God will keep me safe.”

The cop mutters and leaves the cell, locking the door behind him. 

The bishop is quiet until the sound of the cop’s footsteps has died out. Then he walks closer and brushes a fingertip against Heine’s cheek and hums, “Tut-tut, Heine. What mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“I’ve had worse,” Heine huffs and takes a step back to lean against the wall, eyeing the bishop. “How’s Badou? When I left him--”

“Young Badou is doing fine,” the bishop interrupts with a smile that was a lot softer than his usual smirk. “And his leg is fine too. He came to me a couple of hours after you had led the police away. He was quite upset.”

“Really?” Something warm twists in Heine’s chest.

“Yes,” the bishop hums. “I dare say, if I hadn’t talked him out of it, he would have charged in here, guns blazing.”

“Hm.” Heine smiles a little and shakes his head. “Crazy bastard.”

“Indeed. That would have been a silly thing to do because I would have had to spring two people instead of just one, which would have made it considerably more problematic for me.”

“You’re here to spring me?” Heine is genuinely surprised. 

“Aw, you wound me, my child,” the bishop says with what looks disturbingly like a pout. “You didn’t think your dear old Uncle Ernst would let you rot in here, did you?”

“If you ever call yourself that again, I think I’d rather stay here.”

~*~

Heine has to hand it to the bishop; that old fucker knows what he’s doing, and Heine once again, like many, many times before, suspects that the bishop isn’t blind at all. At least, it’s hard to believe that the bishop is blind when, at the same time, he’s capable of taking out two guards and the fat cop in less than thirty seconds. 

“What about the cameras?” Heine asks as he steps over the unconscious bodies on the floor, snatching one of guards’ keys in the process. 

“I bought the man watching them,” the bishop informs him matter-of-factly. “You can pay me back some other time.”

They’re already two blocks away when they hear the sirens, and half an hour later they’re at the church. 

“You should rest,” the bishop says as he sits down on one of benches facing the altar. “You can have a room here until it’s safe for you to go outside again.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” Heine mumbles and pats his Luger. Only his Luger isn’t there. “Fuck.”

Without his guns, Heine feels helpless and naked and he knows that he will have to go back and collect them from the police station. The bishop talks him out of going right away, though, and equips him with another set of guns from the stash. Heine isn’t happy about it all, but he knows that the bishop is right. It’s better to wait until things have died down a little. Heine does, however, insist on going home now. 

The streets around the station are probably crawling with cops, but down here where the church is, they don’t come unless they have a small army with them. This isn’t even the true underbelly of the city, but it’s still not a place that cops willingly venture into. Still, they probably have some eyes and ears down here, so Heine keeps to the small streets and narrow alleys between the buildings as he makes his way home. This first thing he does when he gets home is to take a nice long shower. He hasn’t showered since the morning of the job he and Badou pulled, and he is still covered in both his own and others’ blood. 

He has only just gotten out of the shower when someone knocks on his door. Heine isn’t taking any chances and takes the safety off the gun as he slides up to the door and peeks through the spy hole. All he can see is some red hair and a cloud of smoke. 

Badou looks a lot better than he did when Heine last saw him.

“How the hell did you get to the fourth floor on those?” Heine asks and nods towards the crutches Badou is leaning against. “The elevator’s broken.”

“Perse-fucking-verance,” Badou explains casually and pushes past Heine into the apartment. Heine locks the door and follows Badou into the living room where Badou has sat down. 

“Oh, here,” Badou mutters around his cigarette and withdraws something from the inside of his jacket. Heine reckons that it was probably once a bouquet of flowers, but after what can only have been a rough journey inside Badou’s jacket, over half the flowers have lost their petals. Heine takes the flowers with a snort and an arched eyebrow at Badou. 

“For, y’know,” Badou mumbles and looks away-- Heine can see the tips of his ears turning red, “for distracting the cops and shit.”

“Oh that,” Heine says and carefully puts the flowers down on the coffee table before sitting down in the couch as well. “That was nothing.”

“Fuck you, it wasn’t ‘nothing’,” Badou bites at him. “Could’ve been me sitting in that cell, and I wouldn’t have lasted with this fucking leg, would I?” 

“Guess not.”

Badou just glares at him, then huffs and lights a new cigarette with the old one. Heine suddenly feels awkward because he realises that this is the first time he’s alone with Badou after what happened between them. Just thinking about it makes his body tingle all over, and he shifts a little in his seat.

“Er,” he says stupidly and scratches the bandages on his neck. “Thank you too for-- you know, for getting that old perv to come spring me out.”

Badou snorts. “You bet your pale ass you’re thanking me. Do you realise that I had to crawl through the fucking gutters to get back? Got completely covered in trash and shit.”

Heine is just about to say that his ass isn't fucking pale, but they would both know that it would be a blatant lie. Instead he says, “Screw you, ginger, you think you had it bad? I got torn to shred by a fucking mutt and then shot in the fucking leg.”

“So what?” Badou huffs. “You heal in like three fucking seconds.”

“I god damn told you it’s five minutes,” Heine spits and a moment later he is kissing Badou so hard their lips bruise. It’s brutal and sweaty and ugly and filthy and so fucking hot that Heine swears he can feel his heartbeat in his dick. Badou is squirming against him and ripping at his clothes, and Heine would be tempted to think that Badou is protesting if Badou wasn’t also moaning like a greedy whore against his lips.

It’s not until the smell of burning fabric reaches Heine’s nostrils that he pulls away. Badou’s cigarette is burning a hole in the carpet and Heine gets up, cursing as he stomps out the small fire. Badou watches him, his eye wide. Then he gets up and mutters, “Yeah, sorry about that. Uh, I better get going.”

Badou leaves Heine with a burnt carpet and a dick that is so hard it can cut through glass.


	3. Part III

~*~

Heine doesn’t see or hear from Badou for almost two weeks after that day. He tries to call and text, but Badou doesn’t reply, and he’s not to be found anywhere near the church either. When Heine asks the bishop about Badou, the bishop just says that Badou told him that he was going away for a while. 

Heine curses under his breath and calls Badou ‘a fucking pansy’, but it doesn’t really make him feel any better when he can’t say it to Badou’s face. 

“I heard that,” the bishop says, smiling that smug, knowing smile the old cunt always wears on his face. “Don’t think I don’t know what kind of sinful behavior you and Badou get into when you’re alone.”

“I wish,” Heine huffs and kicks at one of the wooden benches in front of the altar. “The coward fled before we could get into anything even remotely sinful.”

“I’m sure your filthy, sodomy-infested brain has already imagined it many times, though,” the bishop says, watching Heine. Only, of course, the bishop isn’t watching anything from behind those dark glasses, but it sure as hell feels like it. If it wasn’t because Heine has actually _seen_ the bishop’s broken eyeballs with his own eyes, he wouldn’t for a second have believed that the old asshole was really blind. 

“Of course it has, you old geezer, and you were in it too,” Heine says, making the bishop grimace.

“Enough,” his says and lifts a hand. “God will judge you soon enough, Heine, so I shouldn’t. What about your guns? You keep complaining about missing them, yet you’re not doing anything to collect them.”

“It’s not as easy as that,” Heine grunted. “I can’t just waltz in there. I’m a wanted police killer. They’ll be looking for me.”

“That has never stopped you before,” the bishop says and he’s right, so Heine figures he better do something about it before the bishop spreads the rumor that Heine has completely lost his balls. 

He waits until just before dawn. The nights and the days are always busy, but right before dawn, most cops and scumbags are lying low, knocked out by hangovers, black eyes and too much coffee. So it’s the perfect time to pull a crime. If Heine had wanted, he could probably have walked right into a bank and emptied it without even breaking a sweat. He’s not going to do that, though, because Heine isn’t a thief. He might be a cop killer, but definitely not a dirty thief. The bishop has tried hinting that Heine should get some more money for the church, but Heine always tells him to go rob a bank himself if he’s that determined to get more money for the poor. 

The streets are empty as Heine makes his way through the neighborhood towards the police station. Only the occasional homeless guy grumbles at him from behind a garbage container or a dark corner. Heine is used to them and just ignores them as he makes his way forward. It’s hard to tell just how many cops are inside the station, but judging from the number of cars outside, not more than ten. Heine is more than capable of taking care of ten overweight, middle-aged, rotten cops who are nothing more than a bunch of whores for sale to the highest bidder. Heine isn’t going to offer them anything but the chance to walk away with their teeth in their hand or to end up as a heap of gunk on the floor. Their choice and Heine isn’t even armed. 

The cop in the lobby goes down easily. The back of his skull crashes against the wall in a weird abstract painting of red while the rest of the cop sinks to the floor, stone cold dead. It has been quite a while since Heine has put his fist through a man’s face, and his knuckles smart a bit. But he doesn’t have time to think about that, because a couple of seconds later, a group of meat sausages strapped into police uniforms come waddling through the door, guns drawn and mouth frothing. 

Heine takes them down, one by one. They’re too out of practice, too panicked, to react properly, and Heine gets away with only a couple of superficial wounds to his legs and arms. The cops squeal like pigs sent to the slaughter house as Heine takes them down, and by the time he’s done, the hallways stinks of vomit and piss and death. It might be a bit much just for a couple of guns, but Heine never does anything half-heartedly. Besides, a couple of rotten cops less aren’t going to make the world a worse place. 

All in all Heine is in and out of the place in less than half an hour. He finds his guns in the evidence room, locked into a metal box with a lock that’s so easy to pick it’s almost a joke. When he gets outside, though, things get a bit more serious. At least five police cars have pulled up in front of the station and at least twice as many cops are standing behind the cars, guns drawn and balls the size of their heads. Further behind them is a S.W.A.T. car, which means that Heine is in trouble. It is one thing to take down a couple of fat, lazy cops, but to take down fifteen of them along with a S.W.A.T. team is a bit much, even for Heine, especially since he is still unarmed. Sure he has his guns, but with no ammo, they’re not worth much to him. 

“Drop your weapons!” some idiot with a megaphone shouts at him, and under the booming sound of his voice, Heine can hear the yelping of the police dogs. Heine hates those fucking dogs. Heine doesn’t have to time to do much else than hate the dogs, because a second later, the sound of automatic gunfire and screams drowns out the moron with the megaphone. 

“How many times do I god damn have to save your lily ass?” Badou roars as he jumps up on the roof of a car, firing his Ingrams every direction. “For a mutant soldier bred to kill, you sure are a shitty one.”

~*~


	4. Part IV

~*~

Heine has no god damn idea how they did it, but they somehow manage to get away more or less unscathed. Heine has a bullet wound in the shoulder, but it’s closing up, and for the first time in a very long time, Badou has actually gotten away without getting shot. 

“What the fuck were you doing prancing into a fucking police station when all they’re doing is looking for you?” Badou huffs at him as they help each other lifting a sewer cover. They have killed most of the cops, but they can already hear the sirens on the backup, so they figure it’s best not to hang around. 

“I was getting my guns,” Heine bites at Badou and wrinkles his nose when the stink of the sewer rises to meet his nostrils. He sighs and begins to climb down the steel ladder leading down into the stinking darkness. “You know how I feel about my guns.”

“Right,” Badou huffs, closely following Heine down the ladder. He reaches up and pulls the sewer cover back on so it won’t be too obvious where they went. “You got a serious kink about those guns, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Heine grunts. He has reached the bottom of the ladder and finds his lighter inside his pocket to shed some light on the situation. It looks exactly like they show it in the movies; a long dark tunnel with brownish green water running along its curved floor. Heine can’t see any rats, but he can hear them shuffling about in the darkness. 

“Any gators?” Badou asks as he jumps down from the ladder and lands right in a puddle of something Heine refuses to even try to categorize. 

“God fucking damn it, I just bought those boots!”

Heine laughs quietly, then looks around, trying to decide which in direction to go. They look almost exactly the same, so eventually he mentally flips for it, then turns and heads left while Badou follows him, still cursing about his shit-covered boots. 

They walk for a good long while in the darkness. The only light comes from Heine’s lighter, and the air is thick with the stink of filth. 

“This shit is making me dizzy,” Badou groans after a while. “Must be some kind of poisonous fumes.”

“S’more like some kind of pussy fumes,” Heine mutters and snorts slightly as Badou knocks his fist against the back of his shoulder with a grumbles, “Asshole.”

A couple of minutes later, Heine finally finds a way out. They have to crawl through a narrow pipe, break through the grating at the end and then climb up another rusty ladder to the surface. The surface turns out to be on the subway tracks, and Heine almost has his head run off by a subway train. They make it out in one piece, though, and seek momentary refuse at the side of the tracks. It dark and filthy down here, but at least they’re not wading through shit, as Heine says. 

“Do you have any idea where the fuck we are?” Badou asks, looking around. “Was that the K-train that almost decapitated you before?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t exactly pause to look,” Heine grunts and looks down at himself in the dim lights from the Emergency Exit-signs lining the tunnel. He’s covered in shit, literally. 

“This is the worst escape we’ve ever made,” he mutters and fishes a crumbled packet of cigarettes up from his chest pocket. He lights one and hands it to Badou before lighting one for himself. 

“Not the worst, no,” Badou says with a soft sigh as he takes a deep drag of smoke into his lungs. “The worst was definitely that time where we had to hide in that dead cow, remember? It had been dead for a while, and you kept getting maggots into your hair and your pants. That was fucking bad. This is just disgusting.”

“Heh,” Heine mumbles, grinning a little at the memory of Badou spending at least an hour, going over every surface of Heine’s body in the search for maggots while Heine bitched and whined like a little girl. “I guess that’s true. Maggots beat shit any day. I fucking hate maggots.”

They spend a couple of minutes talking about their past exploits while they smoke their cigarettes. By the time they’re done, they’re both laughing and smiling and not at all feeling like they’re covered in human waste. After almost being run over by another train, where Heine spots the number on the train, they figure out which way to go, so they head home.

It takes them a while and a couple of near-misses, but eventually they make it out of the subway tunnel and out from the station that is right next to Heine’s flat. 

“You can take a shower at my place,” Heine offers, thinking that Badou might not want to go back down into the subway still covered in sewage.

“Yeah, thanks,” Badou says and gives Heine a weird kind of look that Heine isn’t quite sure what to make of. It’s nothing like the looks Badou usually gives him, which are either annoyed or friendly. This is one is strangely soft and not at all annoyed. It makes Heine feel _fluttery_ inside, which in turn makes him feel pretty damn confused. No one has ever made him feel fluttery before. Not even Lily. 

There’s not enough hot water for both of them to take a shower, so Heine plays the gentleman and insists that Badou use the shower while he go wash himself in the kitchen sink. He in the middle of doing just that, shivering and covered in goose bumps from the cold water, when he realizes that, just on the other side of the moldy old wall, Badou is naked. Something warm and heavy tugs between Heine’s legs, making his dick twitch. Badou naked… Badou naked with wet hair and freckled skin that’s pink from the hot water… Badou naked with long, slender limbs and a tight, little ass that probably fits perfectly in Heine’s hands…

A sound from the bathroom makes Heine snap out of it, and he shakes his head like a wet dog, spraying everything around him with water. He is suddenly very much aware of the fact that he’s naked, so he hurries to the tiny bedroom to find some clothes. In this case, clothes turn out to be a pair of ratty old sweatpants and a ditto t-shirt. Heine is in the middle of pulling the latter over his head and thinking that he really needs to do laundry when Badou steps into the room wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Badou wearing nothing but a towel around his waist… Badou wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and with wet hair and freckled skin that’s pink from the hot water… Badou wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and with long slender limbs and a tight, little ass that probably fits perfectly in Heine’s hands…

Heine stares and Badou stares back.

~*~


	5. Part V

~*~

Badou is the first to break the silence.

“Uh,” he says, pushing a wet lock of hair out of his eyes. “Thanks for letting me use your shower.”

“Right, yeah, no problem,” Heine replies awkwardly.

Neither of them move. They just stand there staring at each other until it’s finally too much for Heine and he looks away and says, “You can borrow some of my clothes if you want.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Badou mumbles and walks over to the old wardrobe Heine gestures to. Heine knows he should leave, let Badou get dressed in peace, but god fucking damn it, he just can’t get himself to leave. He tries to look somewhere else, but his gaze keeps drifting back to Badou who’s standing in front of the wardrobe with his back to Heine. Badou flips through the stacks of clothes before he finds something that might fit him. Then he drops the towel and Heine swears that if he wasn’t genetically engineered to never suffer a heart attack, he would have had one right then and there. Badou’s body is long and slender, pale-skinned and covered in light brown freckles. And scars. Even with the shitty eyesight Heine has, he can see the dozens of scars that crisscross Badou’s body. He even remembers where a couple of them come from; the long, thin scar on Badou’s lower back was from that job they pulled two years ago where Badou got himself sliced by some knife-waving psycho, and the two round ones on the back of Badou’s left shoulder are from that time they were running from the cops and Badou took two bullets. The bullet wound in Badou’s thigh is still pretty fresh, but Heine can tell it’s healing nicely. Heine isn’t even aware of it, but while he’s watching Badou, he moves closer until he’s standing right behind Badou. The back of Badou’s elbow brush against him as Badou tugs a shirt over his head, and Badou jumps a little.

“Shit,” he hisses and turns around. “What the hell are you sneaking up on me for, asshole?”

“Just—dunno,” Heine mumbles with a slight shrug and advances even further. He wants to touch Badou’s hair, wants to grab those skinny shoulders and—he doesn’t even know what he wants to do. Badou is staring at him, his lips parted, his green eyes searching Heine’s red ones. 

“Fuck, Heine,” he breathes softly.

Their bodies are less than an inch apart now and Heine can feel the heat from Badou’s skin even through their clothes. His heart is racing, thumping so loudly that it almost drowns out any other sound. Badou’s lips form words, but Heine can’t make them out over the noise. 

Then their lips are against each other. Heine doesn’t know who kissed who first, but it doesn’t matter. Badou’s lips are moving against his, possibly speaking words that Heine can’t hear, and Badou’s fingers are clawing at his shoulders, tugging at his t-shirt until it’s ripping at the seams. 

“...a dickhead. You’re such a fucking dickhead,” Heine can suddenly hear Badou breathe, but neither of them stop what they’re doing. Heine grabs Badou by the shoulders, turning him and shoving him down on the bed which creaks and groans under his weight. Badou snarls, but Heine is over him in a second, kissing Badou so hard his lips hurt. 

Heine has no idea how long they kiss, but at one point he has to pull back a little to catch his breath. His lips are throbbing almost as hard as his dick which is straining painfully against the front of his jeans. 

“Fuck, Heine,” Badou breathes, staring up at Heine with wide eyes. Heine is sure Badou is about to up and leave like he did last time, but he is happy to learn that he’s wrong when Badou reaches out to grab Heine’s dick through his pants. Badou squeezes around him, making Heine groan and his cock jerk. 

“Get it out,” Badou whispers, sounding urgent like he is talking about an antidote or something really important and not Heine’s dick. He claws at the front of Heine’s jeans to get them open, and Heine is pretty sure that is the hottest thing anyone has ever done. 

They’re a messy heap of arms and legs and lips and teeth. Somehow they manage to get most of their clothes off, and Badou is snarling when Heine shoves his hips forward and rubs his leaking dick against Badou’s thigh, smearing precome all over Badou’s skin. It’s hot and they’re sweating, slipping and sliding against each other, their movements becoming more and more erratic the closer they come to orgasm. Badou is gasping and cursing against the side of Heine’s neck. His teeth are scraping over the sensitive skin around Heine’s collar, making Heine shudder and growl into Badou’s damp hair. This is by far the hottest fuck Heine has ever had, and they’re not even fucking yet. And judging by how close Heine already is, they’re not going to either, at least not this time. Heine curls his fingers in the sheets and uses the leverage to shove his dick even harder up against Badou’s hip.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Badou gasps out, digging his nails into Heine’s lower back. “You’re—fuck, you’re actually rutting up against me, Heine, you dirty, fucking mutt. You’re—I can’t believe you’re actually—“

Badou doesn’t get to say anything else, because Heine catches his lips in another bruising kiss that leaves them both gasping for breath. Badou’s dick is rubbing against Heine’s hip, and less than a minute later, Badou mewls. His body shudders and Heine feels the splash of hot, sticky come against his skin. That is pretty much all it takes to shove Heine over the edge as well, and he snarls against Badou’s cheek as his dick swells against Badou’s skin before splattering it with thick strings of come. Neither of them stops moving, though, and the spunk is smeared between them, making their skin even more slippery.

How long they keep going like this, Heine has no idea, but eventually he rolls off Badou with a grunt. He lies there on his back, staring up at the blurry ceiling while trying to catch his breath. From what he can hear, Badou is doing the same next to him. After a while, it becomes a silent battle of who’s going to say something first. 

Heine is first to give in. He props himself up on his elbows and reaches out to grab his glasses off the wooden box that acts as a makeshift nightstand, then says, “So, uh, you want something to eat or something?”

He slips on the glasses and turns to look at Badou. The sight of Badou lying there with his hair splayed out on the sheets and his freckled cheeks flushed hits Heine like a punch in the gut, and he wonders if Badou has even the slightest idea of just how fucking gorgeous he is. Something must have been showing on Heine’s face, because Badou suddenly looks awkward and sits up with a soft snort of, “What’re you staring at, powderpuff?”

“Nothing,” Heine mumbles and looks away.

They eventually get themselves out of bed and into some clothes. Heine raids the fridge to find something to make dinner out of, and Badou helps him cook. Through all of it, neither of them mentions what happened in the bedroom. They just talk about the bishop, past jobs they’ve pulled and whatever else they can think about to avoid the huge, mutated elephant that’s prancing around in the room in a pink tutu. Heine wonders if this is what their friendship is going to be like now; the two of them awkwardly dancing around each other while trying to steer clear of the subject the both know the other is thinking of. Well, fuck that!

“Huh?” Badou says and blinks at Heine through the cloud of smoke from his cigarette. “Fuck what?”

Heine looks up and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Shit, he hadn’t realized that he was thinking aloud. For a couple of seconds, he debates with himself whether or not he should actually say something. But then he just huffs and says, “Just, the cops, y’know? They suck.”

“Er, right,” Badou says, frowning a little. “Hey, you okay, man? You’re being all quiet and shit.”

“I’m fine, you nosey asshole,” Heine grumbles and looks away to try and hide the way his cheeks turn a tiny bit pink. “Just finish your damn smoke and be on your way. I got things to do.”

“Alright, jeez,” Badou snorts and takes a final drag of the cigarette before stubbing it out on his used plate. Then he gets to his feet, and Heine follows him out of the kitchen and into the narrow hall. Badou’s coat and boots aren’t exactly fit for wearing yet, so Heine gives him a plastic bag to carry them home in, and then lends him some of his own stuff to use. 

“So, uh, I guess I’ll see you whenever,” Heine says and gives Badou’s shoulder an awkward pat. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Badou agrees, and then does something that leaves Heine feeling, once again, like someone has just punched him in the gut; Badou leans in to brush a soft kiss against Heine’s cheek, then walks out the door, leaving Heine standing there like an idiot, touching the spot on his cheek where Badou kissed him.

~*~


	6. Part VI

~*~

“Heine, my boy, you really need to do something about that price on your head,” the bishop tells Heine three weeks later. “The police are looking for you all over. You can’t do your job with them breathing down your neck and dogging your every step.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Heine grunts and rubs over his eyes. “But what the hell can I do? You know how those pigs are when it comes to their own. Bloodthirsty scumbags, the whole bunch of them.”

“Watch your mouth in my church,” the bishop hums as he walks up the altar and lets his finger glide along the red altar cloth. “You’re forgetting something very important. They can be bought.”

“I didn’t forget it, but where the hell am I gonna get that kinda money?” Heine retorts. “I’d have to buy every single cop in town.”

“Not necessarily,” the bishop says and turns to offer Heine one of those wide smiles that can only mean trouble, mostly for Heine. “You don’t have to buy anyone if you can find someone who will do it for you. Find a squeeze on someone powerful.”

“How the hell would I find that?” Heine snorts. “And who would be powerful enough to pay off an entire police force?”

“The district attorney,” the bishop says without hesitation—the old fucker must’ve given this a lot of thought, Heine thinks. “I’m sure he must have a couple of skeletons in his closet.”

“Wait a minute,” Heine says. “Doesn’t the Bible say something like ‘Thou Shalt not blackmail’ or something?”

“Let me worry about that,” the bishop says and waves a dismissive hand at Heine. “You just worry about the district attorney.”

“Alright,” Heine mumbles and scratches the bandages on the back of his neck. “I guess I can stalk the guy a bit, see what he gets up to when he thinks no one’s watching.”

“I’m going to have Badou come with you.”

“Badou? Why? I know how to stalk a guy, y’know. I’ve done it before.”

Heine hasn’t talked to Badou ever since that day. He had spent a couple of days in a staring contest with his phone, trying to man himself up enough to text or call Badou, but he’d failed. Badou probably didn’t want to talk about it, he had told himself. Badou probably thought it was a mistake, and he would probably laugh at Heine for trying to turn it into something it wasn’t, he told himself.   
Heine doesn’t even know what he wants _it_ to be anyway. They are both freaks, for fuck’s sake, and to think that they can do anything as normal as date is idiotic. Heine had told himself this over and over again, and eventually he believed it enough to stop staring at his phone. Besides, why would he want to call someone who doesn’t even call him?

“Just do as I say,” the bishop says. His voice is soft, but Heine knows the old geezer well enough to know that there will be no discussion in this matter. Heine sighs and grunts, “Fine.”

~*~

Heine isn’t sure why he is feeling so nervous. He’s standing in a small alley behind a sleazy motel later that same day waiting for Badou to show up. They have done this hundreds of times before, and there is no reason for Heine to be nervous at all, but that doesn’t stop him.

The skies are darkening, and all around him in the backyards and alleys the scum is waking up; the homeless, the junkies and the whores are crawling their way up to the surface from the filthy depths of basements and underground parking structures, squinting at the electric lights coming from windows of shops they will never be able to afford shopping in.

“Hey there,” a voice says behind Heine, making him jump with a yelp.

“God fucking damn it, Badou, you fucking retard,” he growls and spins around to glare at Badou. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Don’t get your titties in a twist, snow cone,” Badou huffs and spits on the ground. “S’not my fault you’re not paying attention to your surroundings.”

“Shut up,” Heine grumbles and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “So, uh, what’re we doing here? You’re the surveillance expert.”

“You bet your ass I am,” Badou says and lights a cigarette. “Did a little digging around, and I managed to hack into the guy’s bank account.”

“Yeah? So?” Heine grunts, trying not to sound impressed. 

“So, the guy is squeaky clean,” Badou says, but he’s smirking that way he always does when he’s excited about something. He draws out the pause until Heine rolls his eyes and asks, “But?”

“ _But_ ,” Badou says, grinning with almost childish glee, “I found a secondary account under a false name, and it shows that this guy is anything but clean. We’re talking purchases on all kindsa fucked up websites, like, Shemale Shebangs dot org, and You Won’t Believe She’s Legal dot com. It’d probably be enough to nail the bastard, but I found something even more promising.”

“Would you stop with the dramatic fucking pauses?” Heine huffs when Badou pauses again. “What did you find?”

“I found a weekly expense for one room in this motel,” Badou says, ignoring Heine’s outburst. “When a dick like him is buying one room for one night in a seedy motel like this every week, it can only mean something big and probably super perverted is going down in that room.”

“Alright, so how d’you know it’s him?”

“Because the guy is not only a perverted fucktard, he’s also stupid as a damn door,” Badou chuckles and throws the butt of his cigarette over his shoulder, then lights a new one. “He’s using a fake name, but the moron is still using his private credit card to buy all this shit.”

“Huh,” Heine mumbles, his eyebrows rising. “That really is fucking stupid.”

“Told you,” Badou snorts. 

“Okay, lemme guess,” Heine says. “Tonight’s one of those nights where he rents a room, right?”

“Yep.” Badou nods. “It’s room 275. Right up there.”

Badou points upwards with his cigarette to a window on the second floor. There’s a fire escape on the building, but the bottom ladder of the fire escape is missing, so to get up there, Heine has to jump up and take off on the brick wall to grab onto the fire escape and then pull himself up. 

“What the fuck was that?” Badou breathes, staring up at Heine with one wide eye. “How the fuck did you do that?”

“Just take off on the wall,” Heine explains, making Badou laugh.

“Fuck, Heine, I can’t do that,” he snorts. “When have you ever seen me do shit like that?”

“Alright, then just reach up so I can pull you up.”

Badou jumps and huffs and puffs and drops his cigarette and finally Heine gets a hold around Badou’s wrists to pull him up. Heine has expected Badou to be at least kind of heavy since he is taller than Heine, but it feels like Badou weighs next to nothing, and Heine pulls him up without breaking a sweat. 

“Right, let’s do this,” Badou mumbles, fishing up a fresh cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. “Time to nail this sonuvabitch.”

They climb the fire escape to the second floor. The window is dark and they can’t see anyone inside. 

“Guess he hasn’t showed up yet,” Badou mumbles and checks his watch. “Looks like we’re gonna have to wait for him to show.”

They sit down and Heine bums a smoke off Badou. They sit in silence for a while, listening to the sound of traffic and sirens, before Badou sighs and says, “So, uh, about what happened last time...”

“You really wanna talk about that now?” Heine grunts, shifting a little. He’s not really sure he can deal with getting an “I think it was a mistake” speech right now.

“Well, when else are we gonna talk about it?” Badou huffs with a frown. “You don’t call or anything—“

“Neither do you,” Heine says tersely. “Why was I the one who was supposed to call, huh?”

“Uh, you said you’d call me?” Badou says. “You said it when I left.”

“Pretty damn sure I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did, you lying asshole,” Badou huffs. “We were saying goodbye and I—I kissed your cheek and then you said—wait... didn’t you? Fuck.”

“It’s called wishful thinking.”

“Shut up, fuckface.” 

Even in the dark of the alley, Heine can tell that Badou’s cheeks are bright pink. He could make fun of Badou for the mistake, but he doesn’t feel like it. Instead, he tries to better the situation a little.

“So, we were both waiting for the other call,” he says, then lets of a soft huff of laughter. “That’s pretty stupid, huh?”

“Yeah,” Badou mumbles, not looking at Heine and obviously still embarrassed. 

“What was it you were gonna say?” 

“About what?”

“You said ‘About what happened last time’,” Heine says. He still doesn’t want to talk about it, but it might make Badou feel better to get to reject him.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Badou mutters.

“God damn it, Badou, stop playing coy and just dump me already,” Heine grunts, losing his patience.

“Fine,” Badou growls. “But you know what? I wasn’t gonna dump your ass. I was gonna tell that I liked it last time, and that I’d like to do it again, okay? So fuck you.”

“You—what?” Heine isn’t sure he has heard correctly.

“I’d like to do it again,” Badou huffs, his cheeks practically lighting up in pink. “That is if you’re not too stupid to locate your own dick.”

“Hey, screw you, fire helmet, you can’t just spring shit like that on me,” Heine says. 

“Oh, so does that mean you don’t wanna do it again?”

“No, I do. I just gotta—“

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, fine.”

“Fine.”

They glare at each other for a while. Badou’s cheeks are still pink and Heine’s ears feel hot. Then Badou shakes his head and snorts softly. 

“This is really fucking stupid,” he mutters, chuckling a little. “ _We’re_ really fucking stupid.”

“Speak for yourself,” Heine grumbles, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He eyes Badou and Badou eyes him back. There’s this electric vibration between them, like the air is humming with it, and it’s making all the tiny hairs on Heine’s arms stand up straight. He can feel the warmth from Badou’s body, and he leans closer, wanting to find out if Badou’s lips still taste the same.

“Shit, get down,” Badou hisses. A light has been turned on inside the room, and they both duck down and out of sight. 

“Is it the guy?” Badou breathes, and Heine carefully peeks inside the window.

“Yeah, that’s him,” he whispers. “I remember his ugly face from those idiotic posters all over the city.”

“Is he alone?”

“Yeah. No, wait—fuck holy. Badou, you gotta see this.”

Heine can’t believe what he is seeing. When they had done this, he was sure they might catch the guy with a mistress and a lover maybe, but nothing like this. This will probably be enough to bribe the guy for the rest of his days. Something this big, this disgusting, is exactly what Heine and Badou need.

~*~


	7. Part VII

~*~

Heine has seen a lot of fucked up things in his life, including children ripping each other to pieces. He has seen people do the most unspeakable things to others; he has seen creatures, experiments, part human, part animal, part machine. He has heard their screams of pain, their pleading to be killed. But the sight that meets him in the moldy hotel room is one of the worst things he has ever seen. Next to him, Badou has fallen silent, staring through the dirty glass with his eye wide open and his face twisted into a grimace of disgust. 

“That’s...” he whispers, still staring. “This is fucked up. That fucking _animal_.”

There are three people in the room. Or maybe it’s two. Heine isn’t sure. One of them is the district attorney, and the other is... Heine swallows. There are two bodies, four arms and two faces. From the waist up, it looks like two normal children, except it’s not. It’s impossible to tell their gender. Their heads are shaved, their skin is sullen and bruised, their eyes red and swollen with crying, their lips chapped and full of sores. From the waist down—Heine almost can’t look at it—they’re stuck together, joined at the hip and sharing only one set of legs. But that’s not the worst part. What truly sickens Heine is the scar. Like swollen, purple lightening, it cuts its way down between the two children. It’s fresh enough that Heine can see the small marks the stitches have left behind. These aren’t conjoined twins, they’re two children sewn together; a freak experiment designed to satisfy the sick urges of men like the drooling scumbag who’s staring at the two tiny creatures. 

“Fuck,” Badou breathes. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Badou turns away, but Heine hardly notices it. He’s shaking all over, so angry that he can’t see straight and the only thing that stops him is the hand on his arm.

“Heine,” Badou whispers, wiping his mouth in his sleeve, “Don’t. Don’t do anything.”

“How the fuck can I not?” Heine hisses, finally turning away from the horrifying sight. “How the fuck can I not rip that creep’s throat out and feed it to him?”

“Because if you do, every cop from here to the coast will be on your ass,” Badou replies. “We gotta get a photo of it so we can blackmail the bastard.”

“So I’m just supposed to let him—to those kids?” Heine spits.

“Just—for now, don’t do anything,” Badou breathes. “Heine, I know how you feel about stuff like this, but killing him ain’t gonna solve anything.”

Heine grunts; he knows Badou is right. Charging in guns blazing isn’t going to help him. In fact, it is going to make Heine’s life even more difficult. Besides, killing one scumbag isn’t going to make this problem go away. He will need to get his hands on the sick fucks that are behind it all and take them out. 

Badou’s hand is tight on Heine’s arm and it calms him down enough to mutter, “Fine. Do your thing.”

Badou pulls out his camera from his pocket and moves closer to the window. Heine watches as Badou aims the camera and catches the prick in action. Heine can hear the moaning and grunting through the leaky window as the bastard has his way with the children. 

“Fuck this, I’m done,” Badou mutters a moment later and pulls away. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

They make it back to the church without anyone following them. Badou goes downstairs to the cellar where the bishop has given him a small storage room to use as darkroom, and Heine sits down on one of the crimson hassocks in front of the altar.

“You were successful?” The bishop asks as he comes walking up the aisle from the porch. “You smell like sick.”

“That’s Badou’s fault,” Heine mumbles and rubs his hands over his face. “S’got a weak stomach.”

“Hm, was it that bad?” the bishop asks with a frown, coming to a halt in front of Heine. He reaches out to run his fingers through Heine’s hair in a rare affectionate gesture.

“Lemme put it this way,” Heine mutters. “It made me wish I was blind.”

The bishop sighs. “Did you at least get the photos?”

“Yeah, Badou’s developing ‘em now.”

The bishop treats Heine to some bread and wine in the small kitchen in the back, but Heine can’t get the images of the two children out of his head. He tries with more wine, but it doesn’t help. Badou is still working in the darkroom when Heine gets up and leaves the room to go downstairs, swaying a little from the wine. 

“How long does it take to develop some damn photos?” Heine slurs as he all but stumbles into the darkroom. Badou is standing against the back wall, staring into space, but he looks up as Heine enters. 

“They’re drying,” he mumbles and nods towards the row of photographs hanging on a string on the wall. “They’ll be done soon. Are you drunk?”

“Maybe,” Heine grunts and is grateful for the red light which makes his blush invisible.

“Jeez,” Badou huffs and rolls his eyes. “I’ve been down here for half an hour and you’re already drunk.”

Heine shrugs. “Needed something to distract me.”

“Did it work?”

“Not really.” Heine glances at the photographs and grimaces. “That sick fucker.”

When he looks back, Badou isn’t standing against the wall any more. Badou’s face in only inches from Heine’s, and Heine can feel the soft warmth of Badou’s breath against his lips. 

“Lemme help you take your mind off things,” Badou whispers and before Heine can complain how cliché that is, Badou leans in to close the gap between their lips. 

Badou’s lips are soft and taste like cigarette smoke, and as Heine kisses them the images of the mutilated children melt away from his mind, at least for now. The darkroom is tiny and hot, and it doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes of kissing before Heine begins to feel hot. A drop of sweat is trickling down the side of his face and down his neck. Badou bows down to catch it with his tongue, and Heine lets out a soft groan as he leans back a little, letting Badou explore his neck with his tongue. 

The air is thick and hot, closing in around them in the dark and feeling like a protective cocoon where nothing can hurt them, where no unpleasant memories can haunt their minds. Badou’s hand are all over Heine’s body, his fingers snaking into Heine’s shirt and pants, teasing and nuzzling the skin and turning Heine into a shivering mess in no time.

“Fuck,” Heine breathes against Badou’s lips, slowly pushing him backwards against the wall. “Fuck, Badou.”

“I know,” Badou murmurs, his hands traveling downwards to try and tug Heine’s shirt up and off. Heine takes a step back so Badou to pull the shirt off, then instantly steps close again, pressing his now naked chest up against Badou’s body. Heine’s dick is already rock hard and straining against the front of his pants, and he lets out a soft, shuddering groan when Badou reaches down to squeeze around it. 

They somehow end up on the floor. Badou is lying on his back and Heine is stretched out between Badou’s legs. Their clothes come off bit by bit until they’re both naked. Badou’s skin is slick and slippery with sweat and Heine’s saliva, and his dick is soaked in precome from Heine’s cock.

“C’mon,” Badou groans, somehow managing to roll over under Heine so he’s lying on his belly on the floor. “C’mon, you dirty mutt, fuck me.”

Heine has spent many years imagining what this moment would be like, and back when he was a teenager it was a source of constant frustration. Heine might be an experiment created in a lab, bred to kill, but apparently the scientists could do nothing about hormones. Heine was a horny teenager like everyone else, and ever since the day he hits puberty to right now, he has been wondering what sex would be like. The fact that he’s about to find out freaks him out a little. It doesn’t freak him out nearly enough to make him hesitate for even a second. 

Pushing himself up on his knees, Heine grabs his leaking dick and rubs the head over Badou’s ass. The skin quickly slickens with precome, and Heine bites down on his bottom lip as he pushes against the twitching hole.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Badou groans below Heine, and Heine grunts in agreement. Badou’s muscles feel impossibly tight, like they’re squeezing the last drop of sanity out of Heine through his cock. 

Heine has incredible stamina and his endurance is stronger than anyone else’s-- just not when it comes to sex, apparently. He hardly gets to finish his fifth thrust before he doubles over, hissing and groaning as his orgasm slams into him. His cock swells inside Badou, stretching him even further as it releases a hot gush of spunk. Under him, Badou is cursing and shivering, probably coming too—Heine isn’t really capable of registering anything but his own orgasm. 

And then it’s all over. Heine’s legs go weak, his grip on Badou’s hips loosens, and he slides sideways down on the floor with a grunt and a thud. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this spent-- even his eyelids feel too heavy to keep open—but he somehow manages to roll over on his side so he can look at Badou in the red darkness. 

Badou is lying with his eye wide open, panting as if he’s just run a marathon. His one hand to still clutching his dick which is dripping come on the floor. 

“Did we—did we just fuck?” he breathes, blinking at Heine. “Fuck, Heine, did we just do that?”

“Er yeah, I think we did,” Heine mumbles. “You’re—are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Badou pants, letting go of his dick so he can sit up and try to tame his tousled hair. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You look kinda outta it.”

“Shut up, freak-show, I’m not outta anything,” Badou snaps.

If Heine had ever wondered if sex would change things between them, Badou has just proved him wrong. It makes Heine laugh, and he reaches out to tug Badou into a sticky hug. There are a lot of things Heine wants to say, but before he can say anything, there’s a knock on the door.

“If you two are done defiling the Lord’s house, please come out.” It’s the bishop.

“Have you been listening to us, you deviant bastard?” Badou huffs and pushes to his feet. Even in the red light, Heine can tell that Badou’s face is pink.

“I don’t need to. God hears everything,” the bishop retorts.

“Then _he’s_ the deviant bastard,” Badou mutters, making Heine snort.

A couple of minutes later, they’re both standing outside the darkroom, sweaty, tousled and red-faced. Heine is thankful the bishop can’t see anything, although he can probably smell them because they both reek of sex. 

“How did the photos turn out?” the bishop asks, having apparently chosen to ignore the freshly fucked elephant in the room.

“Fine. Got his face on ‘em and everything,” Badou says, lighting a cigarette which the bishop instantly snaps out of his mouth and extinguishes with his fingers.

“Good,” the bishop says. “Then I suggest you get your brains out of your dicks for a minute and go take care of business.”

~*~


	8. Part VIII

~*~

”Go take care of business,” Badou grumbles. “Like it’s something anyone can just do. If that old pervert wasn’t blind I’d tell him to do it himself.” 

He and Heine are crouching in the bushes outside the district attorney’s house. It’s more of a manor than a house, actually, and is located in the small closed-off suburb outside the city. It’s like they’ve come to another country. Everything in here is polished, proper and respectable and a world apart from the city with its whores and graffiti and homeless people pissing in the street. The entire area is surrounded by a thirty feet high concrete wall with barbed wire on top and is patrolled by armed guards with dogs every ten minutes. Getting in hasn’t been easy at all and it has taken some blood spill, but now they’re here.

“Shut up,” Heine huffs, his eyes fixed on the house across the neatly kept lawn. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Heine’s eyesight isn’t what it has been, but he can tell that there’s a light on in the office on the second floor. The rest of the house is dark and quiet except for the guard that comes around the corner every now and then. 

“How the hell are we supposed to get in undetected with that armed asshole prancing about all the time?” Badou hisses. “I’ll bet you anything that there’s at least one more guy hiding somewhere. And fucking video surveillance, too.”

“It won’t matter if they see us or not, dumbass,” Heine whispers. “If we get the squeeze on the guy he won’t come after us.”

Badou just grunts in reply.

They bicker over how to do it for a while, but eventually Heine persuades Badou to do it his way. Heine isn’t keen on sneaking around much; he prefers the direct approach which in this case involves getting out of the bushes, walking across the lawn and placing a well-aimed gunshot right between the guard’s eyes, then the dog’s. 

“Looks like our guy’s gonna have to get his house repainted,” Badou comments as he eyes the sad remains of the guard’s brains on the otherwise spotless white wall. They step over the lifeless body and make their way around the house to the front door. Just as Badou predicted, they’re met by another guard. He is young and stumbling over his words as he tells them to drop their guns. Heine almost feels bad for shooting him, but only almost. He is about to open the front door when Badou stops him. 

“Wait,” Badou breathes and puts a hand on Heine’s arm. “We shouldn’t go crashing through the door. He’ll have time to get away then. Lemme pick the lock.”

“Hrm,” Heine replies, and he pulls away from the door so Badou can kneel down in front of it. Chances are that this guy—Mats Alptraum, Heine reads on the brass sign on the door— has already heard the gunshots and is halfway out the window. Then again, Heine has broken into enough villas like this one to know that most of them have been designed with bullet- and soundproof windows.

“Got it,” Badou whispers triumphantly and gets to his feet as he pushes the door open. The hall is huge, dark and quiet—well, almost quiet. Judging from the sounds coming from upstairs, Alptraum has company; very female and very loud company. Heine wrinkles his nose and shudders as he and Badou climb the staircase and the noises grow louder and louder. 

“Ohhh baby! That feels so good! Ahhhhh...!”

“This is just one of the many reasons I’m queer,” Badou huffs. “Chicks sound like fucking sirens when you fuck ‘em.”

“Yes! Oh fuck, yes! Harder, baby! Fuck me _harder_!”

Heine just grunts in reply. He’s feeling increasingly sick and uncomfortable the closer they get to the half-open office door. By the time they reach the actual door, Heine is ready to introduce his breakfast to the carpet. He glances at Badou and Badou glances back. They stare at each other for a moment. Heine knows that if he really has to, he can do this, but it turns out he won’t have to because a second later, Badou is kicking the door open and charging inside, guns drawn. 

“You! Alptraum! Get that bitch out!”

A lot of screaming and yelling ensues, but after a moment the sound of Alptraum’s voice says, “Alright, alright! She’s in the bathroom now, okay? What the fuck--?”

“Lock the door,” Badou barks. Then when a click sounds, he continues, “All cleared.”

This is exactly why Badou, despite appearances, is the best partner Heine can ever want. Somehow, for reasons unknown, Badou seems to know exactly what Heine is thinking and what he needs in these situations. Feeling a rush of gratitude, Heine wanders inside.

The room is a mess. A lamp is knocked over, there are papers all over the floor, and in the middle of it the naked Mats Alptraum is standing, covering himself with his hands. Badou is leaning against the opposite wall, a cigarette in one hand and a gun in the other.

~*~


	9. Part IX

~*~

“What is this?” Alptraum spits. “Who’re--?”

He trails off when his eyes meet Heine’s. A look of horror creeps over his flushed face.

“You’re—,” his voice is hoarse and raspy. “You’re that guy the police are looking for. The cop killer. The guy who killed his way out of a station single-handedly.” 

“Shut your mouth and listen up, asshole,” Heine barks as he stalks over to Alptraum, grabs him by the throat and slams him against the nearest wall. Alptraum groans, but he doesn’t struggle. He smells like tobacco and alcohol and sweat and...

Heine’s stomach turns and he feels slightly nauseous, his grip around the bastard’s neck tightening.

“You smell like cunt,” he growls with a grimace of disgust. “Is it that whore’s cunt? Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s those little kids you like to rape, huh? Am I getting close?”

Alptraum’s face goes paper white. “I—I don’t know what you’re—”

“Bullshit!” Heine snarls. “Bullshit, you little fucking shit. Badou...”

Heine hears movement behind him as Badou walks up to them, extracting the photos from the inside pocket of his jacket and holds them up so Alptraum can see them.

“See?” Heine hisses. “That’s you. That’s your face, and it’s gonna be all over the front pages if you don’t dance to my fucking tune, got it?”

Alptraum is staring at the photos in disbelief as if he refuses to believe this is happening.

“How did you--?”

“I don’t think that’s what you should be worrying about, man,” Badou mumbles and huffs. “What you should be worrying about is calling off the search for my friend here.”

Alptraum’s eyes flick towards Badou.

“What? I can’t just--! How am I going to explain suddenly calling off a search for a cop killer?”

“Don’t care,” Heine says and gives Alptraum’s throat a squeeze that’s hard enough to make him cough. “Just do it, or you’re gonna wake up to this on the front page of your morning newspaper. This city is bent, but it ain’t so bent that they’ll let you get away with this.”

Alptraum’s face goes slightly grey. Heine knows that Alptraum knows this is true. The city will tolerate a lot of things and you can buy your way out of almost anything, but not something like this. The public will demand Alptraum’s head on a spike, and Heine knows Alptraum and his kind of people. They would rather sell their own children than give up their power.

“Alright,” he whispers, looking thoroughly defeated. “Alright, I’ll do it. Just destroy those pictures.”

“Hah, you think I’m a totally retard?” Heine says with a bark of humorless laughter. “I’m gonna hold on to these to make sure you stick to your promise.”

“But how will I know you won’t just publish them anyway?”

“Guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“Enough with the fucking chit-chat,” Badou grunts and waves the gun in Alptraum’s face. “Call it off.”

“Okay, okay.”

Heine pulls back and tosses Alptraum the phone. “Now.”

Alptraum sends him a look of pure hatred, then takes the phone and dials a number.

“Commissioner? It’s Alptraum. Sorry to wake you.”

Heine leans against the wall and glances at Badou who sends him an ever so small twitch of his lips in return.

“...I don’t care what your men are going to say, Commissioner. Call off the search now! If any of your men are found to continue the investigation at work or in their spare time, they will lose their badge, got it? That’s an order. Good.”

Alptraum puts the phone down and glares at Heine and Badou.

“There. It’s done.”

“Good,” Heine says and pushes away from the wall. He offers Alptraum a snarling smirk. “Night, mister district attorney.”

~*~

“Do you really think it’s gonna work?” Badou asks as they make their way home along the subway tracks. They have to press up against the wall every five minutes when a train roars past them.

“Dunno,” Heine mutters and shrugs. “It’s worth a shot, I guess.”

“Hey, Heine,” Badou says and stops. Heine stops as well and turns to look at Badou. Even in semi-darkness and surrounded by filth and rats, Badou looks fucking gorgeous. Heine is glad the darkness hides the slight flush on his cheeks.

“What?”

“Just—,” Badou looks awkward, then reaches out to take Heine’s hand and give it a squeeze. “Y’know.”

“Yeah,” Heine mumbles, then presses up against the wall sticky with filth as another train thunders past them.

~*~

It’s long past midnight when they get back to Heine’s apartment. Heine plopped down on the ragged old couch as soon as he’d toed off his boots. Badou sat down next to him.

They are quiet for a while, just sitting there and staring at the wall. The night’s events play and replay themselves in Heine’s head. He wonders whether Alptraum is mobilizing the entire city’s police force against him in this very moment, or if he is cowering in a corner the way they’d left him. Heine also thinks about the two kids in the seedy hotel room. He can still picture the look of despair on their faces and that swollen, purple scar connecting their bodies. He wonders whether they are still alive.

Heine is torn from his thoughts by the sound of Badou flicking his lighter. Before Badou can light the cigarette, though, Heine reaches out to snatch the lighter out of Badou’s hand.

“Hey, what the fu--?”

The rest of Badou’s complaint is muffled against Heine’s lips as they cover Badou’s mouth. With a soft groan, Badou opens his mouth to Heine’s tongue before curling his arms around Heine’s shoulders as he all but melts up against Heine.

They end up on the floor in a tangled mess of arms and legs and half-shed clothes. One of Heine’s earrings gets stuck in Badou’s hair, making them both grunt with laughter.

It’s different this time; there’s nothing hot-headed or urgent about the way Badou kisses Heine or the way Heine drags his tongue over Badou’s freckled chest. It’s slow, achingly slow and so intense Heine almost wants to run away. Their eyes keep meeting in long stares that make all the little hairs on the back of Heine’s neck stand up straight. He doesn’t know what it means, but he’s pretty sure he’ll find out eventually. For now, all he wants to do is enjoy every inch of Badou.

Later, when Heine shoves his dick as far up Badou’s ass as it can get and doubles over as the orgasm tears through him, Badou gazes into his eyes and says something that Heine can’t make out over the rush of blood roaring in his ears.

“What?” he pants, pressing his forehead against Badou’s cheek as he collapses atop Badou. Their skin is slippery with sweat and come, but Heine can’t be bothered to move away yet.

“Huh?” Badou hums, sounding breathless.

“You said something, just now,” Heine mumbles and lifts his head a bit to look at Badou’s face. “I didn’t catch it.”

“Oh.” Badou’s cheeks turn a deeper shade of red under the freckles. “I just said that I like you. I—I really like you.”

“Thanks,” Heine says like an idiot. Then he huffs at himself and murmurs, “I like you too.”

Instead of laughing like anyone else would because Heine is a fucking retard with stuff like this, Badou just tugs Heine into a sticky hug.

Heine returns the hug for a while, feeling strangely peaceful for once, then rolls off Badou and stretches out next to him on the floor. He takes the cigarette Badou offers him a moment later and blows a ring of smoke up towards the ceiling.

“You’re gonna publish that photo anyway, aren’t you?” Badou asks softly.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re gonna find whoever fucked up those kids too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’m gonna help you.”

Heine turns his head to look at Badou. “You don’t have to.”

Badou snorts a soft laugh and shakes his head. “I know that, moron. But, y’know, I’m sticking by you and all that shit.”

Heine grunts in reply, then looks at the smoke coiling in the air and smiles a bit.

**THE END**

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of this.


End file.
